


Where Angels Fear to Tread

by medomai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medomai/pseuds/medomai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley is a lot nicer than he thinks he ought to be, because if he was any less patient the devil that he is, he would have kicked Castiel out the second he started whining. The King of Hell heals a relationship. (Disclaimer: dramatically less serious than canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where Angels Fear to Tread

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. This was really self-indulgent. I think it's sort of placed early season 7, but it's canon-divergent anyway, so - there you go. The summary is probably the best way to describe it - Crowley is really, really nice. Awfully out of character for him.

“I’m going to look for absolution,” announces Castiel. Really, everyone has been thinking he ought to have been looking for it a long time ago, but ol’ Castiel is still getting used to the whole self-determination thing. 

Crowley thinks, not for the first time, how ridiculous it is that an angel keeps coming to vent at him. The silly thing has thus far refused to take any of Crowley’s advice, so he wonders why it makes sense to Castiel. Because fucking angels, that’s why. But instead of saying any of this out loud, he merely raises an eyebrow and says, “Oh?”

“Yes.” Castiel nods, trying to look very serious. It ends up being the kind of serious that means he’s secretly worried about how this whole thing will go down, so Crowley takes pity.

“So, are you looking to obtain this absolution from anyone in particular? Because if you ask me, your severe delusions of godhood a while back, while quite charming, infringed on my dignity significantly and I think a little forgiveness might be sought in my general direction - ”

“I fail to see how I infringed on your ‘dignity’,” interrupts the stupid effing angel, and no, Crowley wasn’t imagining those quotations around the word _dignity_. Despite the insult to his person, Crowley felt a brief twinge of pride for Castiel learning to be rude to figures of authority. In this case, he wasn’t sure if he should congratulate Castiel or not; if there was anyone who deserved rudeness, the King of Hell might qualify.

“More than dignity, I meant my peace of mind,” clarifies Crowley. “Nobody enjoys the feeling of thinking that at any second you might smite them, it’s not good for one’s emotional health. Really, Cas, Cassy, Castiel, you must learn to look past the literal and into the subtext.”

“Don’t call me that,” says Castiel, looking strict and ominous. “I am not seeking absolution from you.”

“Then who?” 

Castiel turns away so Crowley can’t see his face, but he has the sneaking suspicion that he actually just doesn’t want to see Crowley’s reaction. “...Sam and Dean.”

He hears Crowley scoffing, and he turns around despite himself to see the demon roll his eyes in some mix of amusement and derision. 

“Your boytoy, I see, of course.” Crowley starts chortling, but it doesn’t seem to be kind laughter. “And I don’t suppose you have any bright ideas as to how to get the macho man to listen to you? Last I checked, you were not in his good books - ”

With the sound of gentle fluttering, Crowley is abruptly standing by himself. He rolls his eyes again for good measure. He realizes that Castiel only comes to him because literally no one else in creation will give him the time of day, but still - fucking angels.

\---

Castiel has taken to standing in the presence of the Winchester boys, invisible, inaudible, intangible. The feeling of being completely unnoticeable to them feels uncomfortably like the two years he’d spent lying to them. But the assurance he draws from their presence overpowers his sense of guilt every time, so he stays. He isn’t with them often, of course, it’s just his habit to spend a few minutes here and there when he gains the courage.

It’s been months and he still hasn’t been brave enough to show himself to them. So Castiel watches and listens. 

After the conversation with Crowley, Castiel feels his determination to win forgiveness slip away from him so quickly it may as well have never existed. He’d been working up that determination for weeks, and now it was all gone. Castiel shifts his wings irritably, disappointed in himself that he’d gone to Crowley. He should have known better. 

Would he ever start following Dean’s advice? Castiel glumly concludes that he was probably doomed to make terrible decisions forever.

“How’re you doing, Sammy?” asks Dean as he throws his bag into the backseat of their car-that-isn’t-the-Impala. At this point, the two brothers have been doing well enough that Dean only asks out of the knowledge that some day things are going to go very wrong for them. 

“Good,” says Sam. “Seriously!” he says when he catches Dean’s suspicious glance. 

Dean subsides, and doesn’t seem to think any more of it. 

Castiel sits in the backseat of the car as they drive away from a motel, where he assumes they’ve just successfully finished a hunt. They don’t say a lot more to each other, so Castiel relaxes against the window. He absorbs the warm filial affection filling the car while Nazareth plays on the radio.

“So, um,” Sam starts talking, and Castiel almost flinches at the tension that’s suddenly making Dean’s shoulders sit rigidly.

“What.” 

To his credit, Sam continues calmly. “I was thinking... Maybe... How are _you_ feeling?”

Dean studiously doesn’t look away from the road, but he sighs. Castiel thinks he sounds tired. “What are you getting at, Sam?”

“Well, it’s been months since - since Cas, and you haven’t - ”

“This isn’t about Cas,” says Dean. In the back, Castiel frowns. 

“Are you sure?” Sam is fidgeting with his hands in his lap, but he’s looking earnestly at Dean. Castiel is unsure what that says about Sam’s emotions right now. “‘Cause you hardly trust me, or Bobby. You haven’t talked about Cas’ death, I don’t even think you’ve _mentioned_ him once since it happened, and - ”

“Make your point,” Dean warns him.

“Dean... Have you come to terms with Cas being gone?” asks Sam.

“Of course I have,” Deans says snippily. “I’m dealing with it. I just don’t share all my feelings with the class because I’m not you.”

“Okay,” says Sam, and though it’s perfectly obvious he doesn’t believe Dean, he doesn’t push the point. 

Castiel decides to stay with them for a while longer than usual. The drive is a long one, and no one says anything for a long time. Castiel knows this is normal, though, so he doesn’t worry. After a while, the atmosphere shifts to something more comfortable. 

There is more conversation, but it is ultimately meaningless. Castiel pays attention to the sound of their voices instead. Low murmurs, stifled chuckles, loud snorts, the occasional rumble of their singing. It is all very pleasant. 

And by the time the car has pulled into another motel that evening, Castiel forgets himself and nearly starts defending Sam’s singing voice to Dean. (While Dean was being truthful when he said Sam couldn’t carry a note to save his life, to heaven every voice was created unique. Thus Sam’s singing was inherited from glory, and was counted as beautiful.)

Sam gives Dean a meaningful look before they leave the car, and says, “You can’t hate him forever.” Castiel stops himself with words sitting heavy on his lips. Dean stares straight ahead while Sam gets out of the car and goes to check in. Shame roils violently within Castiel.

He can’t handle being here. So Castiel flies away and hates himself even more.

\---

“You’re the most pathetic creature I’ve ever seen and I’ve met _a lot_ of demons.” Crowley eyes him up and down, and for once Castiel is sure Crowley doesn’t have anything sexual in mind. Mostly sure.

Castiel is drunk. Well, not passed-out drunk, just getting to the stage where one starts falling over. He doesn’t want to put up with Crowley right now and so he tells Crowley that.

Crowley heaves a put-upon sigh, because he knew he was evil but he didn’t think he was so bad as to deserve the responsibility of babysitting a socially stunted celestial spirit with megalomaniac tendencies. “Well, this is slightly awkward since you’re the one who appeared at my doorstep, mate. You’ve come to the exact wrong place if you don’t want to deal with ol’ Crows.”

Castiel grabs the tumbler out of Crowley’s hand and tips back the remaining amount of scotch. 

Crowley allows it, but his eyebrows lift. “Angelic constitution is a bitch, innit?” 

“Shut up,” rasps Castiel, and he shoves the glass back at Crowley. He stumbles in through the door past Crowley, who shrugs and closes the door behind him. Castiel plops down on Crowley’s couch, and throws his face into his hands.

After an awkward few minutes, Crowley belatedly recognizes that this might be the way an angel bawls their eyes out. There aren’t any tears, so it’s hard to tell. 

Crowley leans over the angel. “...I take it things didn’t go well with your boys?”

Castiel shakes his head vigorously but doesn’t say anything.

“...Okay,” says Crowley, and he decides then and there he’s not going to put up with this shit. He waits until the stupid bundle of feathers stops shaking, and then haphazardly throws a blanket over him. Castiel seems to understand, and he obediently lies down. He can figure out how to stay still and wait out the coming hangover, thinks Crowley. So leaving the angel there, he goes on a trip. 

\---

At around eleven o’clock in the morning, Castiel stirs. 

“Hello, morning dove,” Crowley greets him. The demon is sitting at his modest kitchen table, cheerfully drinking out of a mug and eating bacon straight out of the frying pan.

Crowley can’t decide if the look on Castiel’s face means that he’s interested or repulsed by the meagre food offerings. Then the angel growls - growls! - and tries to stick his head back under the covers. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Crowley says, rolling his eyes. He finds himself doing that more and more whenever around Castiel, and that constant exasperation is what convinces him that he’s done the right thing for himself. “You’ve been breathing meditatively for the last seven hours, that has to be enough for your metabolism to get rid of a hangover.”

The angel doesn’t move. 

Crowley sighs, and finishes his coffee before he tries again. “O Angel of Thursday, he who calls the Almighty Dickhead his cover and speed, get your fucking ass off of my sofa and into a chair before I take drastic measures.” He lets a little of his real irritation with Castiel into his voice this time and it should have been a warning, but Castiel remains still. 

Without another word, Crowley retreats into his humble bathroom. He comes back to the living room a minute later, lifts up the blanket, and pours a large bucket of freezing cold water over the angel. 

Completely shocked, Castiel makes a noise not dissimilar to that of a whimpering animal, then he whirls to stare at Crowley in wounded disbelief. Crowley studies him, and decides that if it’s possible, being soaking wet makes Castiel look even more pathetic than last night. He saves the thought for later.

Crowley points at the table. “Sit.” 

Castiel sits, never breaking his now-wary eye contact with the king of the demons.

“Now,” Crowley says, taking the chair opposite him. “I estimate there is only half an hour for you to wake up and attempt to look less bedraggled. This is for your own good.” 

“Half an hour until what?” Castiel has never looked at him with more suspicion. Considering how their behind-the-scenes deal to find Purgatory went, this is a significant amount of distrust. 

“Eat some bacon,” insists Crowley. “Do you want coffee?”

Castiel only glares at him.

“Don’t think I won’t get _mean_ ,” Crowley says flatly, and he insistently pushes the frying pan towards the angel. 

Sulking, Castiel reaches for a piece and halfheartedly starts chewing.

Crowley goes to pour the angel a cup of coffee, satisfied. “Would you care to take a shower in the next twenty minutes?”

Castiel accepts the coffee when it’s pushed upon him, but otherwise ignores the offer. After a sip from his mug, his forehead starts crinkling. “This is an extremely unpleasant drink.” 

“It’ll make you feel better.”

Obviously displeased, Castiel continued eating and drinking until eleven thirty rolls around. At that time, there is a knock at Crowley’s door. Castiel looks worried, but Crowley waves that away. He goes to answer the door, and there stood Sam and Dean Winchester.

“This is a favour, Castiel,” Crowley says to the angel frozen at his dining table. “Don’t fly away until you’ve resolved your issues, or you are not welcome in my company ever again.”

With that, he disappears to go occupy himself elsewhere.

\---

It took a lot of very convincing argument from Crowley before Dean stopped reaching for the salt, shotgun, and exorcism book. Being something smarter than a bag of hammers, Crowley didn’t consent to being put in a Devil’s Trap while he said his piece - they would have only tried to kill the bastard anyway - but eventually it came out Crowley knew something about Castiel.

Not only knew something about him, but had the angel at his place right now and wanted them to come and pick him up.

“How do we know you actually have him at your place?” Dean had asked, after Crowley had handed over his address on a post-it to Sam.

Crowley had sighed disgustedly. “Because I’ve had the damn thing coming to bitch at me for the last six months, and it’s constantly ‘I’m a failure’ this, and ‘Dean hates me’ that. I am fed up with his complete inability to grow a fucking pair and beg your forgiveness, and I want him out of my hair.”

That sounded self-serving enough to be true; Sam had shrugged and said the worst thing about it could be that it probably was true. 

Crowley said he’d expect them before noon, and that was that. 

Now Dean is standing in Crowley’s front door, staring at the person who is somewhere in the threshold between friend and enemy. For his part, Castiel has apparently been stunned into stillness. He looks like he stepped into the shower without bothering to take off his clothes, still dripping wet, and is possibly hungover. The overall effect is demeaning.

“What the hell...?” he breathes. 

Sam is the first one to make a move. He takes a cautious few steps inside. “Cas? Can we come in?”

Castiel nods jerkily, then awkwardly stands up as if to receive them. “I - I didn’t know you were... there’s bacon...?”

Annoyed at himself for being tempted, Dean walks in, closing the door behind him. He meanders over to the table, ignoring how Castiel leans away from him. He grabs the last couple pieces from the pan, and then takes the pan back to the stove. 

Sam starts talking as Dean digs in the fridge for another packet of bacon.

“So, Cas... You seem to be... intact.”

“Yes. More or less.”

“More or less?” Sam asks delicately, sitting down at the table.

Dean looks over to see Castiel sit back down, apparently taking Sam’s actions as a sign of peaceable intentions. He resists a snort, and turns on the stove.

“I am greatly diminished from what I once was,” Castiel admits. “While I have retained some abilities, like flight, I am finding more and more limitations on myself.”

“I see.” Sam sits quietly for a moment, opting not to inquire further. Castiel doesn’t volunteer any more information, either. Dean glances up every now and then from the bacon, but the tableau seems limited to everyone present awkwardly not looking at each other.

Dean decides to break the silence. “So, Castiel. Crowley says you’ve been up in his grill for the last six months. Care to explain what that’s all about?”

“I don’t understand what you mean...” says Castiel slowly. 

“I mean ‘are you still working with Crowley to open Purgatory again’, Cas!” snaps Dean. “Been kidnapping any Alphas? Torturing them? Killing any more politicians? Taking souls from hell?”

“No, none of that - ”

“Then what, Cas? What could you possibly have been doing all this time? With the _king of hell_?”

“I have no accord with Crowley,” Castiel says stiffly. His hands are clenched tightly on top of the table; Sam is watching those fists like they might go nuclear any second. “I have not been since the gates of Purgatory opened.”

“Then what,” Dean repeats icily. 

“Nothing of import,” Castiel claims, and he matches Dean’s disbelieving glare. “I have no plan to gain more souls. I am not fighting a war in heaven. No angel or demon will speak with me, or will even stand in my presence. Except for Crowley.”

“So he’s your B.F.F. now, huh?” sneers Dean. “You have a bad day, you go binge on Haagen-Dazs and crying on his shoulder? Is that how it works?”

“There is no ice cream or weeping,” says Castiel. Sensing imminent violence, Castiel starts outright glaring back at Dean. “I had no reason to believe I was welcome elsewhere,” he says steadily.

Sam’s hand finds his forehead, and Dean deliberately puts the fork he was using to flip bacon aside on the counter.

“Cas. This is _exactly_ the same issue that led to you making deals with demons and thinking you were God. The _exact_ same.” Every word feels like it’s being ripped from his throat. “Even if everything is wrong, you find us. We will tell you what’s up. What I said all that time ago, it’s still true. You’re our family, and you’re one of us. But suddenly Crowley appears in our hotel room and tells us that you’ve been alive all this time and didn’t even care to let us know. What the hell is that?”

Castiel breaks eye contact first, staring down at his knuckles. “You would accept me even now? After everything?”

Dean snorts, sharply enough to make Castiel glance back at him. “Oh, believe me, there is a lot more we need to deal with. We don’t trust you, and we may never trust you again. Just because we’re willing to take you back doesn’t mean things are ever going to be the same way it was before, so don’t come with any demands or expectations of us.”

Castiel doesn’t look like that was any more clear, and unusually, Sam doesn’t look like he’s going to clarify Dean’s emotionally charged answer.

So Castiel goes out on a limb and clears his throat gently. “Is that a... conditional yes?”

“Yes.” Dean lifts the fork again and points it at Castiel. “That is exactly it. This is a conditional yes.”

Fidgeting, Castiel decides to keep pushing his luck. “What you two and Bobby were saying at the warehouse, after I - absorbed the souls of Purgatory... Do you still mean it?”

At the warehouse? Dean looks at Sam in confusion, but Sam seems to know what Castiel means.

“He means do we still consider him family?” Sam looks meaningfully back at Dean. His permission is written all over his face.

After a split second, Dean nods. “Whatever, yes, fine. Castiel, welcome back into the Winchester fold of screw-ups and failures.”

Dean ignores Castiel’s wince and Sam’s reproving eyebrow furrow. “Now!” he says instead. “How about we infringe on Crowley’s last pack of bacon before we hit the road?”

Luckily, taking the time to yell a little at Cas didn’t spell disaster for the bacon sizzling in the frying pan, so Dean finishes those up, and plops the frying pan back onto an oven mitt on the table. Sam disinclines to have any, Castiel seems to feel like he’s not allowed to have any despite Dean gesturing him toward it, so Dean is the only one who eats any. With no one saying anything, it makes for an extremely awkward meal, so he eats as fast as possible.

When the three of them step outside, there is another moment of uncomfortable indecision when Castiel stops in front of the car with an uncertain expression on his face.

“You going to be hanging with us?” Dean asks, and Castiel nods like he’s not exactly sure himself.

“Then you’re sitting in the back. We can pick up supplies for you later. I’m assuming since you were eating and drinking when we walked in, you’re human in all the ways that count.” Dean opens the driver’s side and gets in without waiting for his response. 

“I still don’t sleep,” he hears Castiel mutter, but the angel obediently opens the back and gets in. 

As they’re driving off, Sam turns the music up loud enough they would have to yell over it even if they wanted to talk. Dean doesn’t look or speak to Castiel for the rest of the day, but when he looks over, he can see Sam’s self-satisfied glances. He doesn’t know why the hell Sam is so forgiving of the one in the backseat, but he’ll ask later. Dean knows if he snaps now, with Sam nodding his head to AC/DC’s _Hell’s Bells_ and Cas detachedly watching the countryside, things will never be fixed. Castiel will fly off, never to return, and Sam will never stop attempting his Dr. Phil sessions complete with mournful staring.

So he drives.


End file.
